


With Me

by intrepidheart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Hallucinations, Hell Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Protective Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Sibling Incest, Swearing, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 05:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4552710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intrepidheart/pseuds/intrepidheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't know how to pick up the broken pieces of his brother. He doesn't know where to fucking start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Sam's wall is broken and he doesn't know what is real and what isn't anymore. Dean does what he can to help keep his little brother in reality.

Dean's been to Hell and back.

Literally.

He's experienced the mind-bending psychological trauma that pours over the walls of his mind in a sticky black tar that can't be wiped away with the passage of time or the assurances of his brother. He's accepted that the heavy remorse and self-loathing from his decision to pick up that knife and twist it down into that first soul will never be something he can forgive himself for.

Dean knows Hell, but at least he has two feet on solid ground, his gun in his hands and Sam's soul crammed back into his body. For now, that's enough. But then Sam (fucking _Sam_ ) had to scratch. Sam had to search. Sam had to peel away the scabs and dig deeper into the pit of guilt left behind by his other half that didn't give a damn. Sam had to be the one to swing the wrecking ball into the shamble of cement in his mind that Death calls "the wall" and knock it all the fuck down. Sam had to be the one to break himself.

Dean knows Hell. He remembers every inch of the place, bodies writhing in agony, neverending screams of pain shattering his eardrums, blood seeping into every line of his palms.

Dean also knows how to pull himself up by the boots, slap on a cheesy grin and saunter through life with his fake bravado and just fucking _deal_.

Dean doesn't know how to pick up the broken pieces of his brother. He doesn't know where to fucking start.

-

Sam is awake.

That's what loosens the iron vice that has been squeezing the shit out of Dean's lungs for countless hours and minutes and seconds and fucking milliseconds because Sam was hurt, Sam was barely breathing, Sam was lying in a coma on a cot too small for his stupid long legs and Dean couldn't see his stupid hazel eyes and didn't that just leave Dean breathless with anxiety crawling under his skin like spiders? Then he was forced to leave the house with Bobby and Balthazar to try to stop Cas and Crowley from bringing around some seriously bad shit (because the world can’t stop being in jeopardy for like _two_ fucking minutes, can it?).

Now Cas is some super-charged freak God and Sam just tried to shove an angel blade into his back, but hey, Sam is awake, Dean will take what he can get. After Cas gives a speech, basically for them to hope, for their sakes, they never see him again, he’s gone. Sam collapses and practically gouges his palm open with broken glass and Dean can barely see straight as he picks out all the pieces and wraps up the wound because, okay, he’s not at a hundred percent, but it’s Sam and he’s here and he’s awake.

They manage to get themselves home (which means that Bobby and Dean have to manhandle the fuck out of Sam who is nothing but dead weight, but at least he’s _awake_ ) and drop Sam in one of the bedrooms upstairs, where he promptly passes the fuck out.

Dean fights back the fear that is starting to bubble inside of his chest again at the thought that maybe Sam won’t wake up again this time, shut up, Dean, no, Sam’s strong, he goddamn dragged himself out of his deathbed to help Dean and Bobby when he was just barely put back together again, he’s gonna wake up, it’s just a _nap,_  for Christ’s sake. So Dean does what he can at the moment, starting to work on the Impala to bring her back to her former glory (which undoubtedly going to take a good long while by the looks of her dented-to-shit roof).

After a few hours work, Dean steps into Bobby’s house, wiping his hands on his grease towel before grabbing a beer from the fridge.

“Hey, Dean.”

Dean turns, his heart lurching as his eyes find his brother standing in the doorway leading into the living room. Sam is standing up and he's smiling tentatively at Dean and Dean can finally really see those stupid hazel eyes he’d been waiting for, big and relieved and _Sam_ , and all Dean wants to do is surge forward to get his arms around his brother. But Sam is fragile, Sam can’t be broken again, so you're damn right Dean's gonna treat him like a fucking china doll until there is anything that says he can be treated otherwise. He just suffered through reliving the horror of his soul being ripped to shreds by Lucifer and Michael in the cage. Dean can afford to give Sam a bit of space.

“Wow, you’re, uh, walking and talking.” Dean gestures his towel hand at Sam as he lets his eyes run up and down the length of Sam’s body, searching for trembling knees or shaky hands or a possible onset of seizures like Dean had been forced to watch Sam experience down in the panic room (it had made Dean want to rip his hair out because he couldn’t help, he couldn’t do fucking anything to help his brother, useless, he's fucking useless).

But Sam looks fine. Healthy, even. Dean presses his lips in a tight line, thinking not for the first time how strong his little brother is, despite every single shitty thing the world has thrown his way, fuck this place, Dean's gonna need a three hundred page book slammed in front of him to remind him why they keep trying to save the world that just kicks them in the jewels time and again.

Sam finds a way to make a joke about being able to pull on his own socks and say he feels okay, minus a bit of a headache. Dean leans back against one of the kitchen counters, unable to stop the look of shock that flitters across his face.

“Seriously?” Dean pushes, his forehead creasing as his stomach does a flip. Sammy’s okay. He’s actually okay.

"Look, man, I’m as surprised as you are." Sam assures him, his face open and honest and truly looking just as shocked as Dean is that he's upright and not a fucking vegetable. “But yeah, I swear.”

Dean takes Sam’s words, paints them on a huge ass banner and tacks it up in the forefront of his mind. Sam is okay. Sam is okay. Sam is standing and talking and breathing like a functioning human being and Sam is okay.

Dean's not stupid. He knows that things are never this easy, not for them (goddammit can they ever catch a break?) but right now it is and Dean's gonna hold onto those words like they're a fucking lifeline and just try to phase back into the normal routine of all things Sam-and-Dean.

So they work on the car (which actually means Dean works on the car and Sam runs to the basement to fetch the socket wrench Dean needs for the front left axle) and they try to do research, even though they know it’s futile. All they _can_ do is wait because if they even think of doing something to fuck with Cas, they’re all gonna die. For now, it’s one day at a time.

Then Bobby has to go and open his big mouth and start prying into how Sam manages to stay vertical, Dean’s been trying not to think about that, thanks very much, because the point is that he _is_ vertical and that’s good enough. Deep down, though, Dean knows it’s a load of crap. He knows Sam isn’t doing as good as he claims he is. Why? Because the Winchesters can never catch a fucking break.

He’s proven right when they cast the spell to bind Death, who oh so thoughtfully enlightens them that Sam’s having fucking _hallucinations_ and isn’t that just wonderful? Not to mention the fact that Cas has apparently swallowed some ugly sons of bitches called Leviathans that are going to end the world if they bust out of Cas’s meat suit before Dean and Sam somehow convince him to puke up them all back into Purgatory plus interest (all those damn souls, fuck, Cas is a fucking idiot). And just because they’re already on a winning streak, Cas asks for their help, only for them to find that the Leviathans decided to stick around and explode Cas’s vessel in a reservoir, so Dean is down one more friend. Story of his life. The absolute cherry on top of the giant shit pile that is their life is Sam telling Dean he is having a hard time figuring out what is real and what is not, and that he’s now seeing Lucifer too.

Then Dean comes home to a house empty of Sam and he may start hyperventilating until he remembers he turned on the GPS in Sam’s phone and guns it to the coordinates he finds. There’s nothing quite like walking into a warehouse with his brother aiming a gun at his head, and then having to dig his fingers into Sam’s still-healing palm to beg Sam to believe in him. Then the world has to throw in a fire at Bobby’s, a broken leg for Dean, and a frenzied escape from a Leviathan-infested hospital, so all in all, it's just been a great couple of fucking days. Like he said before. They can never catch a fucking break.

It’s weeks later that Dean gets the cast off his leg, and that night, he ends up alone in the kitchen, his only company being a bottle of scotch and his ugly inner turmoil of thoughts. Bobby went to bed hours ago, Sam turning in even earlier than that, just like he does every night under the facade of going to sleep when they all know he’s not going to. Dean had watched Sam leave the living room with hunched shoulders, searching the air behind Sam as he willed himself to get supernatural x-ray fucking vision or something so he could see Lucifer trailing after his brother and figure out a way to detach the devil's claws from the back of Sam's neck. Because nothing drives a man into the bottle quite like the knowledge that Satan himself is invisibly plaguing his little brother and depriving him of food and sleep.

Dean leans forward heavily on his forearms over the table and knocks back his fourth (Fifth? Eighth? Who the fuck is keeping count?) glass of liquor before setting it down and shoving it across the wood away from him. His arms feel heavy, laden down with fear and anxiety and the want to gather Sam against his chest like he did when Sam was twelve and had a nightmare and couldn't go back to sleep without the feeling of Dean wrapped around him like a safety blanket. Jesus, does Dean want this to be as easy as it was back then. Easy things, a scrape fixed with peroxide and a bandaid, tears dried with the back of Dean's hand, a smile. Relics of a time long passed.

Steeling himself, Dean gets to his feet, pushing up with his hands on his knees before stretching his aching body, his leg still twinging a little. Despite that, he's now stumbling through the cabin, avoiding couches and chairs as best he can. He knows his room is at the far end of the hall, but for some reason, his forehead is digging into the rough wood of the closed door leading into Sam's bedroom. Dean's fingers lift and pet slowly from the space next to his head down to hover just above the rusted bronze knob. He's trembling.

Sam said he didn't know what was real. Sam doesn't fucking know that he is here and not locked in Lucifer's cage getting the shit kicked out of him by two archangels who have more issues than Vogue, that he is here with Dean and that Dean isn't some fucking illusion, that Dean isn't just some figment that can be swept away like a wisp of smoke. How the fuck can Dean even begin to prove that _he_ is what is real, besides hoping that a little pain in Sam’s hand will snap him back to reality? That Sam is safe (as safe as he can be with the goddamn devil on his back) and that Dean's not going anywhere and that he's gonna find a way to fix Sam and, Jesus, Dean is drunk.

Dean swallows thickly and closes his eyes, his head buzzing and his thoughts tangling together over the trainwreck of ideas he is struggling through to find something, anything, he can do to convince Sammy that Dean's the one who is here and real and not going anywhere. He doesn't know what his plan is but his fingers are wrapping around the doorknob and twisting and pushing forward and, yeah, maybe he stumbles into the room but at least he remembers to close the door behind him before he makes his way to Sam's bed.

Sam is in a fitful sleep, his body twitching where he is lying in the fetal position. All six foot four of him curled into himself, and you think it'd look funny, a giant man trying to bunch himself up into the tiniest ball of a person, except it isn't, none of this is fucking funny, because Sam is in pain, Dean can tell by the look of agony and fear marring Sam's face, and it breaks Dean's fucking heart.

Dean pads forward, his hands starting to reach for his brother, until Sam gasps and squeezes his eyes shut, throwing his head back as his body spasms into an even smaller ball. The muted moonlight catches on the exposed length of Sam's throat and Dean can't help but be fascinated by the way Sam's Adam's apple bobs up and down and how the tendons are straining against his skin and Dean kind of wants to run his fingers up Sam's neck and along Sam's jaw and okay, what the fuck, Dean? Sam's writhing from a nightmare and Dean's wondering what Sam's skin would feel like under his hand and wow, he's seriously about to lose the Best Big Brother Award that Sam made for him in third grade out of construction paper and macaroni.

Sucking in a deep breath, Dean continues forward and touches Sam's shoulder, shaking him to rouse him from his nightmare. Sam doesn't wake, just convulses for a moment and starts panting, his chest heaving up and down as he struggles to pull in air.

"Sam. Sammy!" Dean whispers, louder the second time as he sits on the edge of the bed and places one hand on Sam's cheek while shaking him again with the other. This time, Sam starts back to consciousness and blinks his eyes open rapidly. The deep hazel rings are swallowed by his pupils and fuck, he looks scared and tired and very much _not_ okay, dammit, one break, _one_ break that's all Dean wants for them, for Sammy, God _dammit_.

When Sam's frantic gaze locks on Dean's face, an edge of confusion and distrust leaks into his irises.

"Dean?" Sam murmurs, one hand rising to weakly wipe over his face. His fingertips brush the edge of the palm Dean still has against his cheek.

"Hey," Dean says softly, his voice thick from watching Sam just moments before and he can't stop wondering just how often this happens (Every night? Every time he closes his eyes? They never talk about it so Dean doesn’t know and it’s driving him up a fucking wall). "Bad dream?"

Sam's still looking at him like he doesn't believe Dean is really here on his mattress, leaning over him at whatever o’clock in the morning, and maybe it is a little out of the ordinary for them but Dean's just worried, okay? Jesus, Sam.

"Nah," Sam rasps with a dry, low laugh. "It's all sunshine and daisies up here for me." He taps a finger against his temple and Dean scowls, knocking Sam's hand away. Sam sighs a little, levelling Dean with a neutral stare. "There's nothing you can do, Dean." There's something flickering in the depths of Sam's eyes, his face furrowing as they dance up and down Dean's figure that is hunched over the top half of Sam's body.

Dean realizes belatedly that he's hovering only inches away from Sam, leaning forward unconsciously as he and Sam began talking. Clearing his throat, Dean starts to sit back, taking his hand with him, his fingers trailing down Sam's cheek. The pad of his thumb catches on the rise of Sam's bottom lip as it makes its way back to Dean and suddenly Sam's hand is there, catching Dean's wrist in a tight clench. A deep heat curls in Dean's stomach, tight and sparking and new, as he shoots his eyes up to meet his brother's.

Sam has his gaze narrowed and scours Dean's face before flitting around the room, looking for something. Or someone. Dean bites his tongue hard. Is he seeing Lucifer?

"This is a new one," Sam says with an odd edge to his tone. A new what? Dean just blinks at him, his sluggishly drunk mind trying to understand just what the fuck Sam means. "What's the catch?"

"What're you talking about?" Dean squints at his brother, taking in the way Sam's now pushing himself up onto his elbows. His grip hasn't lessened around Dean's wrist either, and if he doesn't let go soon, Dean's gonna have some serious bruises lining his arm in the morning.

Sam doesn't reply, but he does pause before he draws Dean's fingers back so they can slide across his mouth. Before he can even think about what the fuck he's doing, Dean's stretching them out on his own accord to dance across the pink of Sam's lips, pressing along the seam where they meet just before they part under his touch. Dean sucks in a breath through his nose, electricity trembling from the roots of his hair down to the soles of his feet because Jesus Christ, no, what is he doing? What is _Sam_ doing? He's so torn, warring with himself and his thoughts and these fucking feelings that are both familiar and foreign that he almost doesn't catch Sam's next murmur.

"Might as well make the most of it before it all goes to Hell, right?" Sam says it so quietly that it's almost as if he is saying it to himself. Then Sam's free hand is tangling loosely in the collar of Dean's shirt and Dean lets himself be bent forward until their foreheads are touching.

Dean knows what's gonna happen next. He's been around this block a time or two with women in bars, overeager in the darkness of the corner booth. He knows the drill. He knows, and for some reason, he isn't pulling away. It's his _brother_ doing this and he can't fucking move. It's like the contact of his skin against Sam's has clamped down on all possible motor functions in his body and the only thing he can do is stare into Sam's eyes, pupils wide and searching, digging into Dean's with apprehension and doubt and a hint of hope. Dean can't fucking breathe.

When Sam kisses him, it's soft. Starts with a brush of dry lips on his own before they press in more fully. Sam's mouth kneads into Dean's and now Dean is kissing him back, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do when his heart is in his throat and his other hand is already settling into the dip in the mattress by Sam's hip as his body pushes forward like it has finally found out that this is what he was made for? It's only a moment before Sam's finally releasing Dean's wrist, only to bring both hands up to cup Dean's face between his palms, his fingertips digging into his temples as he pulls Dean tighter to him.

Thinking is a bad idea right now, because if Dean lets himself think then he would have to focus on how Sam's chest brushing his makes his heart beat that much faster or how Sam's lips, as rough and chapped and connected to his goddamn _brother_ as they are, they’re possibly the best pair of lips Dean has ever kissed or how his entire body is aching at the overwhelming sense of _this is right_ and the clawing need for _more_ , no, Dean really just cannot afford to think at all, so he shuts his mind down and just feels.

He feels Sam's hand slip up to grasp the short hairs on his head, he feels Sam's trembling subside as Dean settles a hand on Sam's neck, he feels the way Sam's thumb is brushing down the length of Dean's throat to settle in the hollow space just above his collarbone. Then Sam parts his lips, slips his tongue forward to catch the line of Dean's mouth and that's it, they're gone, lost in each other in every sense of the meaning.

There aren't enough verbs, adjectives and what the fuck ever else in the English language to describe the way Sam tastes. Dean's panting into Sam's mouth, diving in again and again to get it right back on his tongue, can't let it fade away, Jesus, this is the only thing Dean wants to taste for the rest of his fucking life, and he can't think, he can't place what it is, but it's addictive and beautiful and so fucking _Sam_. And Sam lets Dean drag his very essence out of his mouth, opening up like petals under the sun and it just makes the heat in Dean's cavern of a stomach flare even brighter.

It's over too soon, Sam pulling back with a furrowed brow and Dean's stupid, a serious fucking idiot, trying to chase Sam's mouth as it detaches from his.

"So," Sam rasps, and Dean's eyes open to catch Sam's darting all the fuck over his face. "When do the hooks and chains come in?"

Dean's still loaded, okay, so for a moment he leans back and just stares at Sam and tries to figure out if his little brother is into S&M, because wow (but would it really be that weird with them leading the lives that they do?). Except then Dean peers in closer, catches the look in Sam's eyes: tired, drawn, fearfully expectant. So much fucking fear.

The realization hits like a hammer to the temple, shaking Dean down to the core. Sam thinks this is one of his dreams. One of his nightmares. His earlier words ( _this is a new one_ ) make Dean's stomach clench because ( _what's the catch?)_  Jesus fucking Christ, Sam thinks this is _torture_. Sam thinks this is Lucifer mindfucking him, that Dean is a pawn used to break down Sam, that Lucifer is using Sam's own brother in this type of situation to drive him even deeper into the pit.

Dean can't breathe again.

"Go to sleep, Sam."

Sam catches Dean's wrist as he rises from the bed, his entire face now shimmering with doubt.

"...Dean?" It's a hoarse whisper still laced with fear, but with a new edge, a hint of dawning recognition, and it makes Dean turn his face away.

"Jesus, Sammy." Dean chokes out, unlatching Sam's hold on him so he can make his way to the door. "Go back to sleep."

He doesn't stay long enough to find out if Sam ever does.

-

Dean's pretty much incapacitated the next morning with his hangover, cursing his body for waking up with the sun and not letting him slip back into unconsciousness. He empties whatever is left of the liquor in his stomach out into the toilet and takes a shower in hopes of washing the horrendous smell of scotch from his pores before starting a pot of coffee for when Bobby gets up. Pulling a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, Dean takes his seat at the table from the previous night and puts his head down with the bag resting on the back of his skull. It’s probably about an hour and a half later that Bobby walks over and starts chuckling wryly at Dean’s current position.

“You hit the bottle hard, didn’tcha?” Bobby says, beginning to clatter around the kitchen. Dean’s response is a long, drawn-out groan. He hears Bobby top up the forgotten mug of coffee by his elbow and mumbles a thank you before dragging the bag of peas off his head and sitting up in his chair.

“Hey, you’re up!” Bobby’s voice is suddenly a lot more cheerful and an octave too high and Dean moans, leaning back to drape the peas over his face this time.

“I’ve been up since _five_ , Bobby,” Dean starts to say into the cold vegetables on his mouth, just as another voice cuts in and says, “Yeah, I figured I’d try to help out a little more with some research.”

Dean shoots up so fast that the peas slap down onto his thighs, his eyes finding his little brother leaning heavily on the back of the couch in the living room. Sam’s hazel stare finds Dean’s and burns holes into his soul with its intensity, and Dean doesn’t know anymore if this headache he has is from Sam or that bottle of liquor from last night.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam says all soft and Sam-like and Dean’s skin is prickling, so he starts bouncing his knee up and down to get rid of the jitters.

“Mornin’, Sammy,” he rasps out before standing to go put the peas back in the freezer. They can barely pass for frozen at this point anyway. He hopes the heat he feels flooding his cheeks isn’t visible but when he turns around and finds Sam staring at him even more pointedly, he knows it’s obvious. Then, somehow, his eyes are tracing the shape of Sam’s lips like they’re trying to brand the dips and curves into his brain, and fuck, he didn’t mean to do it, it just fucking _happened_ , and he watches them part in surprise. Dean’s heart plummets and his gaze skirts up Sam’s face to his eyes, which are wide and suddenly panicked and Dean’s mentally kicking himself in the nuts, _stupid fucking idiot_ , before Sam excuses himself and all but runs back down the hall to his bedroom.

“Well. That was more than a little odd. You boys okay?” Bobby asks tentatively from where he’s standing by the stove.

All Dean can do is nod wordlessly and jerk a thumb in the general direction of the Impala before hightailing it the fuck out of the kitchen that suddenly doesn’t seem to hold a molecule of oxygen. He bangs his forehead on the roof of the car for a good five minutes when he gets out there, cursing himself for his low inhibition and cursing his body for touching his brother in ways Dean shouldn’t be touching Sam, because it’s _Sam_ and he’s delicate and he doesn’t need Dean’s sudden upheaval of feelings that he can’t sort out to encroach on his brother's tooth-and-nail fight to get back to normal.

He spends the next six hours on his back, pushing himself on the little cart to get under his baby to take things apart just to put them back together, keeping his hands busy and his mind off his brother. Or tries to at least, because if he takes half hour breaks to just lie there and stare at the metal above his head and try to figure out how the hell he and Sam got to where they are, then that's a secret he'll keep to himself.

He comes in with plans to make an early dinner and finds Bobby by himself sifting through old papers and books. He gets concerned to all fuck when Bobby tells him Sam hasn't been out since this morning and hasn't touched the food that Bobby left outside his door at lunch either.

Not sure if it is to comfort himself or his brother, Dean throws together grilled cheese and tomato soup, a staple meal that Dean made at least once a week when they were kids, and puts the bowl and plate on a tray. Nodding at Bobby as he makes his way down the hall, Dean tries to ignore the fact that his hands are trembling, which is making the bowl rattle. Cussing under his breath, Dean gets to Sam's door and pauses, staring down at the untouched sandwich and now room temperature beer Bobby had left earlier, condensation ringing the floor around the bottom of the bottle. Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, Dean balances the tray on one arm and knocks twice with his knuckles. It's silent for too long so Dean lays his head on the door and just breathes as he rests his fingers on the knob.

"Sam? It's me." He ventures after a moment, then waits to hear any sign of life. There's something, a low noise that is muffled by the door, and he's in the room before he can even think to tell his body what to do.

Dean's eyes dart to the bed. Empty. Dean places the tray on the dresser and sweeps the room with his eyes, his breathing picking up when he can't see Sam immediately even though he can hear some unending stream of _something_ in his brother's voice.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice heightens with worry at the end of the nickname as he calls it out while moving towards the end of the bed. He catches a glimpse of a socked foot peeking from the opposite side of the mattress and launches himself forward to find Sam lying on his side on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving, hands in claws over his ears, mouth begging, "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop", _Sam_.

"Sam? Sammy, hey, c'mon, man, snap out of it!" Dean falls to his knees and tries to take a too-thin wrist in each hand, blindly thinking he could just shake Sam out of his nightmare. Sam jerks upright and thrashes with a hoarse yell, the heel of one palm smashing into Dean's jaw hard enough to clamp on his tongue, copper and salt washing over his tastebuds. Dean grunts, rolls to dodge a kick and gets his hands on Sam's face

" _Sam_!" Dean pours every ounce of his concern and fear into his brother's name and there he is, Sammy's eyes snapping open, thin rings of hazel in oceans of black. "Come back to me, Sam. It isn't real. Okay? It's not real, Sammy."

"Dean?" Sam gasps out like it's his final breath, his body collapsing against the side of the bed. Dean can feel him shaking underneath his hands so he automatically starts petting and comforting in ways that will reassure Sam, by stroking back the wild tangles of hair hanging over sunken cheekbones, by nodding and tugging and gathering his brother in a tight hug, gently swaying them from side to side.

"It's me, Sammy, it's me."

Dean feels the choked sob leave Sam's mouth and imprint itself on the side of his neck and he grits his teeth, pressing a hand on the back of Sam's head to usher him into the place between his shoulder and throat that had always been made for his brother's face, through thunderstorms and nightmares that actually had an end and in the aftermath of the really bad fights and sometimes just because they needed to fit together in the darkness. It was a part of Dean that was just for Sam, just like the dip between his shoulder blades where Sam's hands are now pulling Dean in even closer, just like the space in front of Dean's chest that Sam has filled with his body. This is his little brother. His. And right now, his little brother is in the safest place in the world (his little brother is in his arms) so Satan can just take a fucking number and come back never.

A rustle makes Dean look up sharply and find Bobby hesitating in the open doorway. He takes in the situation from where he is and Dean shakes his head minutely at the question in Bobby's eyes, no, there's nothing you can do to help, there's barely anything _I_ can do, just give me a minute. Bobby nods, steps back as quietly as he can to ease the door shut. The click of it closing makes Sam start and Dean can feel panic turning Sam's muscles into iron clad sinews of fear, his entire body becoming one singular locked cage of distrust and exhaustion and apprehension. Dean turns his nose into Sam's temple and shushes him, murmurs everything he can to get Sam to relax again, lies through his teeth (gonna be okay, Sammy, I'm gonna make it okay), doesn't even think of wincing when Sam's hands clench and his nails dig through the thin material of his shirt and into his skin, swallows down the blood still pooling at the sides of his tongue. When Sam's breathing is back to a somewhat calm rhythm and his grip on Dean's back loosens, Dean decides to get Sam off the floor.

"C'mon, short stack, gonna get you up on the bed, okay?" Dean says tentatively as he shuffles on the balls of his feet in preparation to lift Sam. The mumbled noise in Dean's ear is close enough to an affirmation, so Dean gets his arms around Sam's back and pushes up as hard as he can in an attempt to stand and heave his brother onto the mattress.

Thankfully, Sam clears the edge of the bed and sits down heavily when Dean drops him. Dean eases back down onto his knees between Sam's open legs, ignoring the dig of wood into his shins and kneecaps. Sam is slumping forward, so Dean gets a hand on his chest to keep him upright and puts the other on Sam's cheek.

"Hey. You with me?"

With what looks like monumental effort, Sam lifts his head enough to meet Dean's eyes and offer him the barest hint of a smile before turning his mouth into Dean's hand, his eyelids fluttering half shut.

"Always," Sam breathes, the dry surface of his lips scratching the sensitive skin of Dean's palm as they form the one word that effectively cuts into Dean hotter than any blade or bullet ever has.

It takes three tries for Dean to swallow away the huge lump choking off his airway, so when he finally can speak, he says, "Alright, kid, let's get you back in bed."

Dean drags Sam up to the headboard and props pillows behind his back so that even if he slumps, he'll be somewhat upright. He needs to eat, gotta make him get something on his stomach, so Dean crosses back over to the tray and sits crosslegged in what meager space Sam's splayed legs aren't occupying. Balancing the tray on his lap, Dean gently taps Sam's right cheek to get him to look at Dean.

"You gotta eat, Sam."

Sam's eyes roam Dean's face in a slow and scrutinizing way that makes Dean's teeth set on edge, the drag of Sam's pupils across his skin making his blood churn because there's still that undercurrent of suspicion, of not believing this to be reality, and Dean wants to prove to Sam that _he_ is what is real so badly that he's vibrating with it. Tamping everything down for the moment, Dean focuses on dealing with what he can, which is lifting half of a grilled cheese sandwich towards Sam, whose nose wrinkles immediately before he gags emptily.

"No, God, Dean, get it away," Sam begs, lifting a hand to cover his nose and mouth as his shoulders hunch with another heave.

"Sam. What's it gonna take, huh? I know this isn't a pot roast or one of those stupid portable salad shakers, but you can't starve, man. Tell me what to do." Dean ignores the way he pleads at the end because if he doesn't acknowledge it then that means it doesn't exist.

"It isn't you," Sam says after taking several deep breaths, his fingers punching the bridge of his nose. "It's–It's Lucifer, he's making me see–" Sam eyes the sandwich and gags once again, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Okay," Dean rushes, "Okay, okay. We'll figure it out." Dean clenches and unclenches his jaw as he thinks, staring down at the sandwich, his mind buzzing as it offers possible images of what Lucifer is showing Sam, maggots writhing between the pieces of bread, the thick red of the soup actually looking more like a bowl of blood. He lifts his head again. “Sam. Can you just–can you trust me?”

Sam’s eyes fly up to meet Dean’s, the overwhelming rush of love brimming in his pupils knocking Dean’s words down his throat so he loses the ability to speak after Sam says, “Of course.”

Clearing his throat twice, Dean nods. “Close your eyes for me, okay?” And Sam does, no hesitation, just a flutter of long black lashes now sweeping over the sharp rise of cheekbone. Dean braces himself. “I’m gonna sound like a fucking idiot but just work with me here, alright?”

“Mmm.”

“You remember what grilled cheese tastes like?” Sam’s eyes start to open and Dean knows Sam’s gonna look at him like _dude, what the fuck?_ so he jumps in before Sam gets the chance. “Hey. Eyes closed. I already said I’m gonna sound stupid. Just answer the question.”

Sam’s eyelids are shut again, the thin webs of delicate blue veins stretching across the layer of skin like lines on a roadmap.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Okay. Just hold that in your mind. Open your mouth for me?”

A shiver slithers down Dean’s spine as he watches Sam’s mouth part and his jaw widen, the pink shape of his lips just as inviting as they looked in his drunken stupor last night. Steeling himself, Dean tears off a piece of the sandwich and places it on Sam’s tongue.

“Chew and swallow, Sammy. It’s just grilled cheese, nothing else in there except good ol’ processed cheddar and some carbs. Don’t let him make you think it’s anything different.”

Sam chews. Sam swallows. Sam starts shaking. Shit.

“Hey. Sammy. You okay?”

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam breathes, shallow and fast, before Dean can see hazel again, framed by those long, long lashes. “It just–that helped.”

A bolt of pride zips through Dean’s chest and he’s grinning, nudging his knee against Sam’s thigh.

“See? Good things happen when you trust your big brother.”

The affirming smile that Sam throws his way after he says that may make Dean’s heart stop beating for four minutes or something, but what’s important is that his system works. Over the next half hour (because they have time, alright, they can take their time getting Sam back to normal) Dean manages to get most of the sandwich into Sam’s stomach. The soup is harder to do, so Dean gives that one up after a few gagged spoonfuls which Sam still valiantly tried to swallow, because hey, this is progress. It’s a routine they can get through together from now on.

Eventually, they end up side by side, Dean settling against the headboard to loop his arm around Sam’s shoulders, and it’s just so he can feel the warmth of his brother and reassure himself that he’s alive, shut up. They’ve been sitting in silence for a while now and Dean has taken it upon himself to try to predict when the curtain will flutter in front of the open window from the breeze outside. Then Sam shifts under his arm, turns a little onto his side so his head sinks down onto Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

Sam’s hand is playing with the hem of Dean’s shirt, running the stitched material between his forefinger and middle finger in slow drags, back and forth, back and forth.

“Did you come into my room last night?”

Back and forth, back and forth.

“Yeah.”

Pause. Slower now, back and forth.

“Why did you let me do that to you?”

Sam’s voice is so small and scared that Dean can’t watch his fingers any longer, needs to see his brother’s eyes, so he turns his head and nudges Sam’s chin until Sam meets his stare.

“You’re making it sound like you forced me into it, Sam. You do know that kinda thing usually takes two to tango?” Dean’s not exactly sure how his voice isn’t shaking because they’re talking about it, the _thing_ , and he isn’t bolting, and that's a goddamn miracle in and of itself.

“Dean,” Sam still manages to sound chastising, even when he’s exhausted and weak and leaning limply against Dean’s side. “I’m not stupid. I know you’d do anything for me, I just don’t understand how you could let me even try–”

“Because then maybe you’d see that this is reality, Sam. That this is real. That _I’m_ real.”

Sam laughs, short and harsh, his eyes dropping as he shakes his head.

“Dean…” He watches Sam’s throat as it moves with a hard swallow. “I’ve wanted this. For a long time. For even longer than that. So you gotta understand,” Sam shakes his head again, softer this time. “You kissing me back makes all this seem even more like a hallucination, ‘cause I never thought you’d ever… I never thought this would happen, Dean.”

Dean’s entire body is frozen, the only movement being the machine gun fire of his heart against his ribcage.

“I’m sorry. You should go, Dean. You shouldn’t be around me, not when I’m this fucked u–”

Dean cuts Sam’s last word off with his hand on Sam’s cheek, the pad of his thumb pressing tightly against Sam’s lips. Tilting Sam's head to the side, Dean replaces his thumb with his mouth. This isn't about heat and desperation, it's about reassurance, you gotta believe in me, Sam, and for a moment, Dean thinks Sam does. Then Sam is pulling away and he's trembling again, hard enough that Dean's worries he's going to shatter into even smaller pieces than he's already in.

"Don't do this for me," Sam says as he pushes himself away, one hand covering his eyes. "Not this, Dean."

Too many words and protests are fighting their way up Dean's throat, too jumbled to say what he needs to his little brother, so he can't make himself speak before Sam is turning to give his back to Dean with a low, "Please, just leave me alone."

Dean starts gagging when the door shuts behind him and he barely makes it to the bathroom before the bile breaches his lips.

-

To say the next few days are hard is an understatement. Sam comes out for meals, lets Dean coach him through every bite that hits his tongue to anchor him in reality, but he doesn't allow Dean to touch him. At all.

Dean probably looks like he has ADHD with how fidgety he is all the time, twitching with the need to get his fingers in Sam's hair or his palm on Sam's forehead to check for the fever that never breaks or his foot around Sam's ankle when they're sitting at the table. But he doesn't do any of it, because the moment he even thinks of making a move towards Sam, his eyes flash with hurt. Believe it or not, Dean can take a hint. It doesn't mean he's happy about it.

Dean notices that Sam keeps playing with the scar on his palm, fingers pushing and prodding absently when he scans the room. Bobby’s out following a lead one day, throwing a stern look from Dean to Sam and back again before he closed the door behind him, and Dean knows Bobby is giving him the time to clear up whatever is hanging between him and his brother. Of course, Dean doesn’t know where to begin, still reeling from the fact that Sam has been in love with him their whole lives or something, and still fighting through his own turmoil of emotions that manage to be both so painfully obvious, like a word on the tip of his tongue, and beyond fucking frustrating to the point that Dean has to pop Tylenol from the headache he gets from thinking about them.

It’s early afternoon by the time Dean forces his eyes away from the Spanish soap opera on the television to find Sam sitting at the kitchen table, leafing through a newspaper. He doesn’t look much better than he did a few weeks ago, hair too long and lanky, brow perpetually furrowed, cheeks still too sharp on the usual softness of his face.

Dean’s moving, up and out of the cushions, to get a hand on the top of Sam’s arm before marching them into Sam’s room with purpose, his brother yanking and complaining the whole way. Dean’s deaf to it, manhandling Sam until he is seated on the edge of the bed before pacing directly in front of him, palm against his mouth.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Dean says, because at least that much is true. “I fucking don’t, Sam. But what we’ve been our entire lives, it’s–it’s always been different, okay? We’re just… we’re _us_ ,” Dean stops to make his point by gesturing from his chest to Sam. “And that doesn’t make you fucked up, okay?”

Sam leans forward to try and protest, but Dean steps into Sam's space to push him back.

“No, shut up, I’m talking. This can’t be looked at logically or realistically or however your big, dumb brain tries to make you look at it, okay? We’ve always been off the books, Sammy, so how are you gonna compare us to anything else in the normal world?” Sam’s mouth is a tense line and his eyes are cold, but Dean presses on. “And you thinking that I let you, what, take advantage of me that night or something? Or that I was just doing it because it was what you wanted?” Dean shoves a hand through his hair and gives his brother a look. “C’mon, Sammy.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that I shouldn’t feel like this about you, Dean,” Sam snaps, his hands twisting tightly in his lap. His voice falters as he continues. “I shouldn’t love you so much that it hurts to look at you, that it hurts to _breathe_ , Dean. It’s too fucking much and it’s wrong–”

“Who says it’s wrong, Sam, besides you?”

“Society. The entire world minus the deep South and a few royals in England, probably. You really think Bobby would still want to hang around with us if he knew anything about this?”

“Stop trying to talk us out of this, Sam, Jesus!”

“Where is the ‘us’ here, Dean?” Sam scoffs, turning his head away as a distorted smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “I know I’m alone in this.”

Something seizes Dean’s muscles and jerks him forward until his hands are pulling Sam to his feet, fingers clamped tight on the sides of his brother’s head as he fits their mouths together. Sam’s struggling, squeezing Dean’s wrists so tight they’re gonna bruise, but Dean keeps on, flicking his tongue at Sam’s lips and angling his head and urging until Sam opens for him. Dean pants into Sam’s exhales then, “Not alone, Sammy, believe that, believe me”, and Sam is whimpering, his grip changing from harsh to needy, sliding around to tangle in Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s mind gets lost somewhere between the lines of Sam’s mouth and the feel of the mattress under his back, his brother a heated line down his body, the most reassuring weight that Dean has ever had on his chest. It never stops feeling right, the curves of his brother’s muscles under his hand, the way Sam sighs into his mouth when Dean pulls in Sam’s bottom lip, how they fit together in a way Dean couldn’t have ever begun to imagine. Dean kisses Sam so hard that his head starts spinning, knowing that both of their mouths are going to be bruised in the aftermath, but he can't find it in himself to care, because Dean is determined to make himself Sam's new scar, the one that Sam can reach out to touch instead of always digging into the center of his palm.

"I'm real," Dean says harshly into the bow of Sam's top lip, twisting so Sam is beneath him instead and he can tilt Sam's head just how he wants against the pillow. "Me, Sam."

"I know," Sam gasps back, swallow Dean's pants with desperate inhales. "I know it's you, Dean."

Dean makes an affirmative noise before dipping down to taste his brother again. His mouth is numb by the time Sam pulls away, eyes opening to find Sam fixing him with a stare that makes him flush.

“What?” Dean feels his skin prickle under the intensity of Sam’s pupils, the way they roam over him like he’s uncharted territory and the most familiar road Sam’s ever taken all rolled in one.

“When did you know?”

Dean understands what he’s asking, his lungs tightening as he takes in the openness of his brother’s face.

“Think I’ve always known,” Dean shrugs, swallows as he lowers his eyes to his hand skirting down the length of Sam’s throat. He can see Sam’s pulse beating, hard and quick. His voice comes out hoarse and shaky now. “Shit, Sam, I sold my soul because I couldn’t breathe without you there. And I’d do it again in a minute.” Dean pauses. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever believed in, Sammy. Nothing’s gonna change that.”

“But you didn’t-” Sam turns his head away, gnaws on his bottom lip. “I never thought you did.” _Love me the way I love you_ , Sam’s following silence whispers into Dean’s ears.

“I’ve always been a little slow on the uptake, Sammy. You know that better than anyone.”

Sam snorts, rolling them until Dean is on his back again before pushing forward to tuck his face into the side of Dean’s neck. “Yeah. Yeah, I do know that better than anyone.”

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Dean murmurs into Sam’s temple, the ache in his chest crawling its way into his bones. “Christ, I’m an idiot.” It’s making him physically hurt, thinking of all the times they could have had this together, been closer in a way that had always burned Dean’s skin, that had terrified the life out of him so he’d shoved it down and ignored it and repressed it until he couldn’t recognize it anymore. Now all he can see is lost time in the ceiling above his head, all those moments between the two of them where he could have breached that invisible wall and had Sam in the entirety of who he is.

“Hey,” Sam says into his throat, breath hot as it brushes Dean’s skin. “Better late than never, right?”

“Yeah,” Dean drawls sarcastically, tugging at the hair on the back of Sam’s head. “Nothing like finding out your brother is in love with you when the world is gonna end in the next week or something.”

Sam tenses so Dean does too, worry starting to make his heartbeat spike, until he feels Sam whisper, “I never thought I’d hear you say that.”

Dean swallows thickly. “Well don’t get used to it. That was a write off.”

When Sam kisses him again, he’s laughing, and for the moment, Dean can forget about everything wrong with the planet and focus on the world instead, the one wrapped in the space between his arms and pressed against the line of his mouth, because in the end, Sam is the only thing that matters. He’s still broken, still seeing through the cracks, but this is _Sam_ , the same Sam who was strong enough to fight off Lucifer once before to stop the goddamn apocalypse.

So yeah, Dean knows Hell. But Dean also knows his brother. And if anyone can pull through this, it’s gonna be Sam, and Dean will be there with him every step of the way. Nothing is more real than that.

 


End file.
